


chasing tomorrow

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: Blackhawk [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: CW for essentially every kind of abuse (it's not graphic), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would choose you,” Clint whispered against her fingertips as she touched his mouth tentatively in the semi-darkness. “A thousand lifetimes, universes, realities, and in every one of them I would find you and choose you.”</p><p>She pulled away for a moment, her curtain of dark red hair swinging down to cover her face with burgundy shadows. “Romantic, but unrealistic. You wouldn’t know me in every reality, and you wouldn’t know how to find me. You could spend your entire life searching and never find what you’re looking for. I prefer to think that we can do it right the first time, so we won’t need a second chance.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	chasing tomorrow

      _Just human behavior. It's all about calculating how willfully blind a person is going to be. And then exploiting that._
    
     (Natasha Romanov, Earth-616)
    
    
    
    

 

 

“ _Derzhite glaza na menya, Natalia_ ,” the man said, his voice harsh and grating against her ears. _Keep your eye on me._ He held the knife in front of her, the blade pointed towards her eyes. “ _Ya by ne problema vyrezaniya eti krasivyye glaza tvoi, yesli vy peremestite nepravil’nyy put._ ”

“ _Ya slezhu za toboy_ ,” Natalia responded, keeping her hands behind her back, fighting against the temptation to bit down on her lips until she tasted the rusty tang of blood in her mouth. _I am watching._

Her trainer nodded crisply, relaxing the hand holding the knife, his dark eyes softening slightly. She knew she had done well, but she refused to relax, knowing that if he saw he move out of comfort he would cut her again. “ _Khorosho_ ,” he said simply, then flicked the knife at her face. _Good._

Natalia ducked to her left automatically and flung out her hand in a controlled movement, knocking the blade to the side with the back of her wrist where the skin was tougher. The knife clattered to the cold floor with an echoing clang of metal on metal, the blade edges shining in the dim light from the torches flickering on the walls. Sudden terror washed over her as she stood there, terror that she would be punished for disobeying. Surely he had wanted her to be hurt, surely that had been the reason he had thrown the knife at her. She had done everything wrong.

But he threw back his head and laughed, clearly not caring about exposing his throat to her, confident she would never willingly harm him. “ _Khoroshaya rabota, Natalia. Vy khorosho sdelali._ ” _Good job, Natalia. You have done well._ He stepped back and gestured to the knife, and she obediently knelt to pick it up. He took it blade-first and slipped it back into his pocket, smiling at her praisingly. “Your skills are well-honed,” he said, reverting to heavily-accented English for the praise. “You are a good girl.”

 _You are a good girl._ Those four words she lived for, her absolution, her amnesty, her exculpation. She relaxed nearly completely, keeping only a small portion of her body tensed and ready, satisfied that she hadn’t done anything against his wishes, and forced her lips into a smile. “ _Spasibo vam._ ” Words she’d been trained to say unconditionally, without hesitation, always a response. _Thank you._

His hand hovered over the top of her head, brushing her crimson hair. He spoke in English again, and she understood that it was another test, an assessment of her language ability. “Go and practice with the other girls, now. I will see you later.”

It was as good as a dismissal, and she almost made the mistake of letting her shoulders relax when she walked out of the room, determined not to look back. The ghost of his touch still lingered on her hair, and when she thought about it she could imagine that the blood was the same colour.

 

***

 

Natasha woke up abruptly as usual, eyes wide open, alert and watchful; the memory of the Red Room was still weaving around in her head when her eyelids flickered shut, and she widened her eyes automatically to keep the thoughts as far away from her as possible.

The room was silent, but she still slid out from between the covers and walked quietly to the window, looking out over the lights of the city. The sky above was sprinkled with stars and a faint sliver of pale moon peering from behind a think curtain of wispy clouds. She pulled the curtains open all the way and considered opening the window, possibly sneaking out to climb onto the roof, but decided against it. She would only end up regretting it if she couldn’t control herself.

She sat down on the floor in front of the window and folded her legs, resting her fingers on her knees. Bruce had taught her breathing techniques after the last time shed nearly broken down in front of everyone and he’d been smart enough to see it, several of which she hadn’t known before. The focus helped her control the flashbacks, although she knew it wouldn’t be a lasting effect; she knew only too well that her time spent training and practising would continue to reappear. As tenacious as the skies, even when the grey colour of her thoughts threatened to obscure everything else.

 _In. Out. In. Out._ The dreams were slowly wearing her down. They knew how to play games, for certain; Natasha liked to imagine they were a different part of her, but in reality she knew she was the one to blame. _In. Out._ The names she’d amassed over the years came crashing down on her when she tried to choose a mask to wear each day: Natalia Romanova. Natasha Romanoff. Natalie Rushman. And the nicknames: Slavic Shadow. Red Death. Black Widow. The names collected in her throat, choking her. _Natasha. Natasha. Natasha._

It didn’t help, the fact that half of her was locked in her past, and she was still afraid that she didn’t want to forget, that if she did then she’d be lost, no longer be the person she was; she was afraid that who she is now has been irrevocably shaped by the person she was manipulated to be, and she didn’t know how to think her way out of that fact in the least.

At breakfast she was cold and snappy, but thankfully she was like that often enough that the only comment made was from Tony—“You know, you’re worse than frostbite”—and even that is a shitty winter joke, which was made worse by the fact that it’s August, not winter.

Bucky raised his eyebrows at her and mumbled, “ _Mozhno podumat’, ya khotel by poluchit’ shutki ne vam_ ,” which was enough to make her laugh into her coffee and obtain confused glares from the rest of them. She didn’t feel obliged to explain— _you would think I would get the jokes, not you_ —and it was a slight pride that kept her from saying anything. Let her keep her secrets, and language was one of them; if Barnes wanted to be a part of that, then he would have to do so himself.

Clint caught up with her on her way out of the room, slipping his arm around the small of her back and whispering into her hair as they walked, “What did he say to you?”

Natasha contemplated not answering, but decided against it. “Just a joke, Clint. It isn’t a big deal if there’s something you don’t know. If you learned Russian then we wouldn’t keep having this problem.”

“If you talked in English we wouldn’t have this problem,” Clint said in response. Natasha smiled and kept walking, enjoying the feeling of his arm around her waist, pressing into his side and practically drinking in the fact that they were both alive, considering what he’d said and laughing a little how extremely _Clint_ the whole thing was.

“If I talked only in English then I would make a pretty lousy undercover operative.”

 

***

 

She went to the training room after that and didn’t bother to wrap her hands before she started punching the bags, hitting over and over, bruising her knuckles with the force of it all. When her hands had discoloured from bruises and the skin had split, she moved on to the weapons table; she selected her favourite set of knives and threw them, one after the other, until they were all stuck into the centres of the targets and she sank to the floor, tears stinging her eyes.

“Natasha?”

She looked up viciously, already composing the mask and the alibi: I was just practising. She relaxed somewhat when she saw it was Steve, although she still wasn’t comfortable enough to remain facing him while she wiped her eyes surreptitiously. “What is it?”

“Are you okay?” He shifted awkwardly, eyes moving around, anywhere but her face. Natasha bit back a fond smile; she understood that he was slightly scared of her when she was— _what other word for it_ —emotional. “You look a little . . . I don’t know, upset.”

Natasha didn’t snap back at him, although her first instinct was to do so. It scared her, the thought that maybe she was still the monster deep inside, that she hadn’t really changed as much as she liked to think. “I’m fine,” she started to say, then decided against it. “I’m not fine.”

“I didn’t think so,” Steve admitted. He walked over and sat down next to her, touching her shoulder tentatively. “Wanna talk about it?”

The complete sincerity was the tipping point; she _did_ want to talk about it. “I’m scared that I’m a monster, that I’m . . . only able to hurt people. I’m scared I can’t feel.” No, that wasn’t right. “I’m scared I can’t feel properly. The way I’m supposed to feel. No one really gets that part.”

Steve laughed shortly. “Think about who you’re talking to, Natasha. And then there’s Bucky, yeah? You two are really similar. I’m glad you’re not, ah, enemies any more.”

“Briefly.” Natasha leaned into him, grateful when he shifted to put his arm around her. _Friendship, comfort, simplicity. Words she didn’t understand. “Vous n’avez pas besoin de savoir,” he told her, when they were working on French and she didn’t like it. “You don’t need to know. Emotions are for the weak, Natalia. Black Widows do not have emotions.”_ She shook her head fiercely. “He’s lucky to have you, too.”

“Thanks, I guess. I’m glad you’re not, I don’t know, killing people now.” Steve dropped his arm for a moment to hide his face. “God, I’m awful with comforting people. I’m gonna shut up now.”

“You’re fine,” Natasha said truthfully, and for a while they just sat there, holding on to each other, grateful that the other existed, safe in their friendship—a word she couldn’t understand why it had taken her so long to rediscover.

 

***

 

“I would choose you,” Clint whispered against her fingertips as she touched his mouth tentatively in the semi-darkness. “A thousand lifetimes, universes, realities, and in every one of them I would find you and choose you.”

She pulled away for a moment, her curtain of dark red hair swinging down to cover her face with burgundy shadows. “Romantic, but unrealistic. You wouldn’t know me in every reality, and you wouldn’t know how to find me. You could spend your entire life searching and never find what you’re looking for. I prefer to think that we can do it right the first time, so we won’t need a second chance.”

Clint laughed and pressed his hands to her back and shoulders, tracing the curve of her neck, lifting her hair away from her shoulders and letting it fall down in a cascade over his fingers. “You always have to kill the mood, don’t you?”

“If that was a pun, I swear to god, Barton,” Natasha said crisply, although she couldn’t stay irritated, “then the mood won’t be the only thing I’m going to have to kill.”

“You can’t get rid of the assassin part of you, can you,” Clint announced, less of a question or a chastisement than an acknowledgement. He whispered her name softly against her mouth, like a prayer, like a wish, like something else Natasha would analyse more when she was feeling sentimental. “It’s part of you, huh.”

“No, and I wouldn’t wish it, either,” Natasha murmured, reaching for him again, pulling him down to her. Clint kissed her cheek, the line of her jaw, the hollow of her collarbone. She laughed and kissed him again, keeping her eyes open so she could memorise the moment, fix it forever in her memory, as lasting as the images of her childhood.

Clint brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her forehead. “I wouldn’t think you would, Natasha.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com)


End file.
